


Don't come morning, don't come light

by LivingInSmilesIsBetter (axm)



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Friendship, Reveal Fic, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axm/pseuds/LivingInSmilesIsBetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stuck with her, her strange best friend. He'd promised he always would. Until one night when the moonlight had glinted off the silver edge of a blade, catching her attention a second before it was plunged into her best friend's chest. And she lost him too. (Reveal fic. Henry/Jo Friendship. Set May 2015)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-chap reveal fic. The start was inspired by this prompt at the Forever-Fanfiction tumblr page:
> 
> "I really want to read a fic about Jo's husband's death, that explores how she coped in the hours/days/weeks following. Maybe someone could write this?"
> 
> But the more I filled it, the more it wanted to turn into a multi-chap reveal fic. So apologies to the anon who submitted the prompt if this wasn't exactly what they were after.
> 
> The decision I made regarding Jo's name while married might throw some people. I personally think Jo never took her husband's name, but fic felt differently about that. What fic wants fic gets.
> 
> There's a spoiler for upcoming eps. But if you haven't read any you probably won't even notice.
> 
> POVs will switch with each chapter, and the story is Henry/Jo friendship heavy.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

**_Don't come morning, don't come light_ **

* * *

She returned from work to an empty home, Sean already winging his way to DC, still feeling the anger simmering beneath the surface. Not even a full day of work, solving a case, interrogating a suspect, had been capable of tapering her frustrations. Sean was ready; he wanted to start a family. And she - _wasn't_. Maybe a year from now. Maybe two. And as she'd walked out the door that morning she'd thrown one last thought at him, a snippy remark about how it would affect _her_ career. Walking in the front door the morning came flooding back and she huffed out a frustrated breath. It was all so easy for him.

A limp, sad excuse for a meal came out of the microwave, but the steam rising off it couldn't warm her. She forced each bite, and gave up halfway through the rubbery Mac and congealing cheese. She should phone him; she should just swallow down her frustrations and wish him goodnight. Instead she discarded the remains of her dinner, crawled beneath the comforter, hit the light, turned on her side, her back to where he would usually lay - and stayed awake long into the night hoping he might call her first.

* * *

The call came as dawn was casting orange hues through the blinds. Alone in the bedroom, she reached for her cell and brought it to her ear, hoping to hear Sean's voice but expecting death. The usual morning phone call from dispatch. News that another life had been lost.

She mumbled out a greeting, still fighting the wisps of sleep clinging to her hazy brain.

" _Detective Moore_?"

Jo pushed herself into a sitting position, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder while she raked fingers through her mussed hair. "Yes."

" _Officer Jacobs, with the MPDC. I'm sorry to have to call you with such news but._.."

She hadn't expected the life lost to be her husband's.

The rest of the call became a blur of impossible words. _Sean_. _Heart attack_. _Sorry_. _Didn't make it._

She stumbled out of bed in disbelief, pulling on yesterday's clothes from the rumpled pile littering the floor. After a quick splash of water on her face, keys were scooped out of the bowl, and she exited the front door, blinking against the harsh light of the day. She booked a flight from the back of a cab and found herself in DC without a clue as to how she'd actually got there.

Later she would remember every second of that heart-breaking morning; later she would find herself wishing it could all be forgotten.

 _Heart attack_. The words ran through her mind skipping back to replay again and again like a scratched record stuck on a song of despair. _Heart attack_.

 _He's gone_.

_No._

No.

Sean wasn't gone. She couldn't accept that, not until she saw proof.

* * *

Gazing down at the pale, cold face of her husband, she took back her pleas for proof. Nine years on the job, looking at death every day, but none of them had prepared her for this. She couldn't disconnect from this one. The startling understanding it was real hit her with a force that reverberated through her bones, more violently the longer she gazed down at his closed eyes and unmoving lips. A vice clamped around her heart, and she took a broken step backwards, a hand covering her mouth, the other feeling around blindly for anything to grip at, anything to steady her now.

Gone. He was gone. And seeing him on that metal slab, his skin so stark against the silver, made her wonder how she could ever return to her job. Made her wonder if she'd ever want to.

* * *

She had no understanding as to how she got through the rest of that first day, no understanding as to how she made necessary arrangements, found her way back to the airport, and back home again.

Where emptiness greeted her.

Cold silence filled the once happy home. And lingered.

Later she would lie, tell people she had managed okay in the days following. But she hadn't. Not really. She had crawled into bed that night, rolled onto Sean's side, and her tears had stained his pillow long after her exhausted body had succumbed to sleep. She had remained in bed the following day, clinging to the scent of him still on his side, letting it wrap around her and soothe her with lies that he was still with her.

And she believed them.

For a little while.

She answered the phone, at first. Took each call as it came though, expecting to hear his voice on the other end.

She listened to every footstep as it passed by beneath her bedroom window, waiting for the familiar sounds of his gait, for the ones that would head up the stairs, and into the house, into their bedroom, where he would pull her into his arms and call her silly for believing he would leave her so easily.

But he never came back. And the images of his face, his body, in that morgue, tormented her, and finally cut the gossamer-thin threads of hope she'd been mooring herself to sanity with.

* * *

On the second morning, when his scent was fainter, and his presence dwindling, she wondered if she'd, in actual fact, been anchored to insanity.

By his funeral she was able to face daylight again. But perhaps only because she had to. Strong, resilient, Jo. Who could handle anything, right?

She held it together as each person murmured words of sorrow. With damp eyes but dry cheeks she accepted hugs from well-meaning colleagues, and somehow got through the day.

But only just.

* * *

She picked up a bottle that night; instead of the usual glass she and Sean might have shared after a rough day, she didn't stop, not until the bottle was drained and her pain numbed.

The following evening she dug a bottle of vodka out from the back of a high cupboard, sank down on the couch they had brought together, and bought the bottle to her lips. A glass seemed so unnecessary now.

On the seventh day she forced herself to purchase groceries, and a few bottles of whiskey too. And every night for a week she commiserated with swig after swig of the amber liquid. Until the routine of it became her crutch and she didn't know how to end the day without it.

* * *

And then she met Henry.

Strange, eccentric, Henry, who guessed her story before she'd even had a chance to blink, and who coaxed more information out of her over the span of a year than she'd been aware she had even revealed. Who became someone she could share a drink with, commiserate over lost loves with, and heal with. Henry, who barely gave up any information in return, yet had grown to care for him. The first person she'd allowed into her heart since losing Sean. Henry, closed, mysterious, Henry. In the space of just under a year she had come to consider him a best friend, somehow who had helped her face Sean's death, move forward, and even start to date again. He'd been a strange, unexpected stepping stone to allowing another man into her heart, into the space a little of Sean still resided in. Always would.

While he hadn't always approved of her choice in men, he stuck with her, her strange best friend.

He'd promised he always would.

Until one night, when the moonlight had glinted off the silver edge of a blade, catching her attention a second before it was plunged into her best friend's chest.

And she lost him too.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ah, the ever trusty Murder Bag," Henry said, watching as the detectives snapped on gloves. Another morning, another murder, another kit opened. He had a colleague to thank for that last one.

"Excuse me?" Jo asked, glancing up from where she knelt beside the body, her eyes fixed on him while she slipped her hands into the latex.

He tilted his head, watching her from the opposite side of the body, which laid supine and still on the grass in Battery Park. "Surely you know the history of your own tools."

"Enlighten me," she said in a dry tone. "Which I know you will anyway, so I don't know why I bothered."

He grinned. "Bernard Spilsbury, a British pathologist in the early twentieth century, created the Murder Bag," he said, gesturing at her hands. Chuckling at her cocked eyebrow, he clarified, "The gloves and other items you carry these days." With a feeling of bemusement, he added, "He did so after watching a Scotland Yard detective handle human remains with his bare hands."

Jo wrinkled her nose at the thought. "Remind me to thank him."

"Well he's dead now I'm afraid," Henry replied.

She gave him an odd look. "I expected as much."

"Right, of course you did." Normal people die. Normal people weren't some kind of strange waterlogged phoenix, rising from the murky depths to begin anew.

Jo's eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments, before she schooled her features. But the twitch didn't go unnoticed, and he filed that moment away, to ponder on later. For now, he focused on the body. He took in the stab wound, the serrated gash straight through the man's heart, and froze. He lifted his eyes to Jo, and her features tightened as she took in the pained expression on his face.

"What?" she asked, hesitant.

"This day is about to deteriorate. Fast."

Not unlike the body - Samuel Smith, according to his driver's licence - if they didn't get him out of the sweltering heat soon.

* * *

"I've seen this wound before," Henry mused aloud, bent over the cadaver on his slab in the morgue, performing a cursory exam.

"He was stabbed," Jo replied, a wry edge to her tone. "I'm sure you've seen that wound many times."

His shoulders slumped at her words; he glanced across the body at her and shook his head at the playful grin stretched wide across her face. "What I mean," he began, "is I've seen this exact placement, the shape of the cut, the marks on the skin left from the hilt."

"Where?"

"On a victim in '79." He hesitated, and then added, "1979," for good measure.

"In case photos?"

"Yes," he replied, a little quicker than he'd intended. "In photos." In the flesh, actually. He'd knelt before the dying man, in the middle of Battery Park on a damp summer's evening, and tried to stem the bleeding while they waited for help to arrive. He'd torn the buttons off the man's shirt to see the wound. The shape of the gash left from the blade had been so jagged it had left the skin looked like it had been sliced through with a hacksaw. Plunged in so deep, the hilt of the blade had left indentations on his pale flesh, and the shape had been distinctive. The man had died, before help had arrived, but the images of the wound had stayed with Henry through the years.

"Okay, Mister Snippy," Jo muttered. "So what kind of blade was it?"

"They never caught the person responsible, never found the weapon."

"Thirty six years is a long time to wait between murders," Jo mused. "I suspect a little research might reveal a few more victims in between."

"I suspect you'd be right." She was. He knew. He'd buried a body in the 1980s, and one in the late 90s, with the same wound. He'd only dug the graves back then, but he'd heard all the stories, how each person had met their fate, and he'd followed up on those two, tracked down crime scene photos, and now it was happening all over again. He also suspected a little research would reveal a similar case last decade too. Hope flared within him. Maybe, this time, with Jo on the case, if it was indeed the same person… Maybe this would be his last victim.

Jo snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Where'd you go?" she asked once he had blinked out of his reverie and focused his eyes on her once more.

"1979," he answered, a little more truthfully than perhaps he should have. But in the year working with Jo he'd been letting his guard down a little, giving her so much more information than she was even aware of.

"What do I need to know?" Jo asked on a sigh.

"Use that Google that you're so fond of, search: Howard Carter, 1979. David Clark, 1988. Robert Baxter, 1997. Jeremy Michaels, 2006."

Jo swallowed as she absorbed the dates. "And Samuel Smith, 2015," she finished.

"If I'm right, he's consistent. He's striking with an alarming pattern, and appears to have a penchant for white males, mid-twenties, in the Battery."

"How do you remember all this?" she asked.

"Some deaths stay with a person."

Seeming to accept his answer, she nodded. "Okay, you do your thing," she told him, swirling her index finger above the body, to indicate an autopsy, he could only assume. "And I'll rope Hanson into a little stroll through history and see what we can dig up. Call me with any and all updates," she told him.

He nodded and bid her goodbye, before reaching for his tools and beginning the Y-incision. He knew a familiar name would show up in police reports from the '79 case. He'd been there when police had arrived, he'd stayed with the victim long after the man's heart had stopped beating and all life signs had ceased. He'd stayed, because no one should have to die alone. Staying had led to questioning, had led to his name being recorded. But as far as Jo was concerned he'd not even been a year old at the time of that murder, and Henry Morgan was such a common name in history…

* * *

Hours later, Jo wandered back in and slumped down in the chair opposite his desk, looking completely drained. "If I have to stare at a computer screen a second more this drumming in my head is going to escalate into a mosh pit."

"Mosh pit?" he repeated, trying out the words on his tongue.

Jo raised her chin and met his confused gaze, her eyebrows knitting together in a pained expression. "You were a teenager in the nineties," she reminded him. "Dare I ask what you did for fun?"

_1790s_ , he thought to himself. Out loud he replied, "Not mosh pits, it seems."

"No," she agreed. "Bet you had wild nights in the library though." She managed a smile, despite her headache.

"Too many to count."

Sighing, she glanced back at the covered body on the slab, before asking, "What'dya find?"

"What we expected. Same wound. Same blade, same hilt."

"Same knife," she finished.

"It appears our killer has struck again."

"Hanson's pulled all the record from past cases with similar MOs, and as no connection was ever made before we've started from scratch. Needless to say there's a long night ahead of me."

"How can I help?"

"Tell me what else that astounding memory of yours has filed away."

He graced her with a broad smile. "Over lunch."

"It's three in the afternoon," Jo reminded him.

"And I know you well enough by now to know you've not eaten." At the look of guilt tightening her features, he gave her a soft smile. "So lunch it is."

"Fine," she muttered, rubbing at her temples.

"And caffeine, to ease that withdrawal headache causing you misery."

"Oh, that makes sense," she said, releasing another sigh. "Time got away from me a bit."

"It has a habit of doing that." At her look, he added, "I am, of course, speaking about myself."

"Of course," she murmured. "Okay." She stood, and her shoulders slumped in acceptance. "Lunch, coffee, and a little brain picking."

"Excuse me?"

"I want everything you know about this particular MO," she clarified. "Not interested in literally dissecting your brain, Henry."

_Maybe not now,_ he thought. But if he ever gathered enough courage to tell her about his condition she might change her tune then. As some had in the past. He shuddered visibly at the memory, and reached for his scarf.

"It's a little chilly in here," he said, catching her pursed lips, the look of interest flashing in her eyes.

"It's called air-con, Henry. You can change the settings, you know."

He ushered her out the door, a hand brushing her lower back, the gesture still a rather new one in their relationship, but one he rather liked – even if he'd had to stop himself for a few months. He'd missed her fiercely during those months, when she'd been dating a man unimpressed with his presence, unimpressed with the hand holding after a tough case, and the evening spent in a bar after she'd had a brush with death that'd been so close it had almost stopped his own heart. He'd lost his drinking buddy for a while there, had grown so used to touching her he'd caught himself reaching for her more times than he could count. And she'd backed off too. But he'd seen it in her eyes: she had missed him back. And after walking in on the tail-end of the break-up outside the precinct doors, he'd caught her eye, tilted his head, and nodded towards their usual haunt. She had nodded, given him a small smile, and fallen into step beside him. Perhaps impulsively, he had thrown an arm around her and given her shoulder a light squeeze. She had leaned into his warmth in response - and just like that they'd found their rhythm again. During those two months of missed visits to the morgue, of evenings without her sitting opposite the dinner table while Abe entertained them with a tale and light-hearted ribbing, or the rarer nights spent matching each glass of his cognac with a scotch of her own, it had been made painfully aware how empty his life would be without her were she to walk out on him. This friendship, this partnership, was not something he was in a hurry to be without. The taste of that loss recently had been enough to remind him some secrets weren't worth sharing.

* * *

"So why the interest in this one?" she asked after the caffeine had started absorbing into her blood, and her mood had lightened.

He could see, from the lines marring her forehead, the headache lingered. But it soon would fade.

"Why the encyclopaedic knowledge of victims and the years the deaths occurred?"

"Exactly." She gave him a warm smile.

He pondered his answer, taking a sip of his own coffee to let the moment stretch. She watched patiently while he placed his coffee cup back on the saucer, and carefully eased both onto the top of the coffee shop's smooth wooden table. "A professor held a lecture on it once," he replied with ease. "Like I mentioned earlier, it stayed with me."

"Is this professor someone we should be in touch with?"

"He passed on, I believe," he lied.

"Okay," she began, switching gears. "Hanson's pulling security footage as we speak. We've got four deaths in the past potentially linked to this most recent one, and if that's the case the killer likes patterns, and has a type."

Henry nodded. "You'll have my report by this evening, but in my professional opinion it is without doubt the same person responsible for each death."

"On the bright side we've got nine years to solve this," she said, but nothing in her voice was upbeat.

Henry gave her a grim smile that undoubtedly matched the one on her own face. "There are five families out there I'd like to give closure to with a little more haste."

"Me too, Henry," Jo replied, nodding in agreement. "Me too."

He needed his own closure; thirty five years ago he watched a man bleed out on sodden New York City dirt, and he almost smiled at the cards fate dealt sometimes. If that had been the first murder, he would make damn sure this was the killer's last. His life had been intertwined with this person's, and the time had come for justice to be served – and for the ties to be severed for good.


	3. Chapter 3

Belly full, happily caffeinated, Jo sat at her desk and waited for Hanson to return from watching hours of security footage. She perused the file they'd put together, starting with the most recent murder, before going back in time to the beginning, to commit the '79 murder to memory. She examined the crime scene photos, read through the ME's report, and absorbed the witness's account. Her eyes blurred over the name, and she rubbed at them before reading over it one more time. But even in focus it still read the same. _Doctor_ _Henry Morgan_.

"The Hell?" she muttered, reading it a third time to make sure she wasn't seeing things.

Henry.

Morgan.

Doctor? Christ. That was a coincidence and a half.

Father, perhaps? What had Henry said about his father and the antique store? Had he been a doctor too? She searched her memory, sat pondering Henry Morgan Senior wandering New York City in the late 70s, antiques a hobby that he wished to pursue further, perhaps looking for that perfect business partner. Was that when he had met Abe? Catching herself lost in an imagined past, she blinked the ideas away and turned her attention back to the case – but the thoughts, the name, lingered in the back of her mind. No photos of the witness, just a name. No address, no contact number. She sighed. Her 70s counterparts had a lot to answer for. But maybe Henry had even more… She moved on to the 80s murder, and slowly, one at a time, began to connect the dots, unravelling the work of a possible serial killer one decade at a time.

* * *

"We got lucky, Jo," Hanson announced, returning to the precinct a little after seven that evening.

Glancing up from the papers strewn across her desk, she felt a surge of hope. She'd been on the verge of calling it a day, tired of scanning decades-old reports, tired of reading black type, just _tired_. "We got his face?"

"Not that lucky," Hanson corrected. Scraping a chair along the precinct floor, it came to rest at the opposite side of her desk, and with a heavy, graceless, drop of his body he sat. "Murder took place in a blind spot, but we've got him from behind, walking away from the scene." The corners of his lips twitched as he added, "And a clear shot of the knife. Figured Henry would probably recognize it, seems to have a knack for that kind of thing."

Jo nodded. "Called him earlier," she told him. "Lucas was trying to convince him to enter the wound patterns into the computer, and, if a match, recreate the weapon using a 3D printer."

"Would that even work…?"

Jo shrugged. "Maybe? They're working with jagged flesh, organs that were sawed through, and striations in ribs." She shrugged. "Lucas seemed to believe they could get a decent 3D rendering of the pattern, but Henry wasn't convinced." She'd listened down the line, with amusement and interest, while the two had argued in between Henry's apologetic, _Excuse me, Detective._ Until Henry's patience had quit on him.

"Could have been cool."

"I think Lucas just wanted an excuse to play with the new toy."

"Damn shame I missed that conversation."

"The entertainment value was up there," Jo said, smiling.

"So did they try?"

"Henry ended the call before I heard the result."

"Should we be concerned for Lucas' safety?" Hanson asked, his tone light.

Jo chuckled and gave a playful nod. "You got a screen grab of the knife for me?"

"Photo should be in your inbox now."

"I better get it to the boys before we have another death on our hands."

Hanson's eyes sparkled at the thought, and he nodded. He moved to stand, but hesitated, and when he met her eyes again they'd darkened in concern. "How you doing, by the way?"

Jo deflated at Hanson's soft tone. She knew exactly what he was referring to, had hoped it wouldn't come up, had hoped he'd just let this day pass by without a single word about the date. But no, not Hanson. "Fine."

"Because tomorrow is…"

Her jaw clenched and she said in a tight tone, "I'm aware of what tomorrow is."

Standing, he said, "Drop that photo off with Mr Darcy, and then the two of you can meet me at _McSorley's_ for a drink."

"Mike-"

"No arguments, Jo. We're done. It's been a productive day. It ends now. Go get the Doc, and his annoying side-kick if you must, and I'll see you there in an hour."

Jo sighed in acceptance. "One drink," she said. " _One_."

"That's my girl."

"Call me that again and I _will_ shoot you."

"And as you fill in the mountains of paperwork afterwards, think to yourself: was it worth it?" With that, he turned, and sauntered off. Opening her e-mail, Jo clicked print on the photo waiting for her, snatched it out of the printer, and then headed for the OCME's office.

Tomorrow. Six AM. One year exactly. She'd been doing so well, she'd managed to ignore the date most of the day. Had managed to suppress the rising darkness intent on reaching her heart, intent on sucking all joy out of it and leaving her empty.

Just one drink.

Maybe two.

And then maybe an entire bottle in the privacy of her home much later.

* * *

"Everything okay?" Jo asked, entering the morgue to find Henry on the verge of defenestrating the shiny new 3D printer, and Lucas looking more frazzled than she'd seen in a while.

"Is there blood coming out of my ears?" Henry asked her, but despite his words there was a relieved smile on his face.

"Perfect timing, detective," Lucas announced.

Henry released a sigh. "Impeccable, actually."

Raising an eyebrow, Jo asked, "No luck with the printing?"

"The printing," Henry cut in, "Is not – and will not – be happening."

She gave Lucas a sympathetic look. "Maybe next time?"

"Here's hoping," Lucas replied, staring woefully at the equipment on the desk, the technology he was all but salivating over.

Handing Henry the photo, she added, "This might cheer you both up though."

He took it from her, and then looked at her with wide, happy eyes. "This is the killer?"

"We believe so. Was hoping you'd be able to match that knife to the wounds.

"Won't be matching it to the 3D model, that's for sure," Lucas lamented.

"Lucas, I swear, if you don't—"

"Listen," she began, getting the attention of both men, before continuing, "Hanson says we're calling it a night. Start fresh tomorrow. Drinks at _McSorley's_?"

Lucas perked up instantly. "I'm there!"

She turned to Henry who was still debating it inside his head. Nodding towards his office, she asked, "Got a minute?"

He caught the request for privacy, and nodded. To Lucas, he said, "We'll just be a moment."

"All good, take your time," Lucas told them, already tidying up in preparation for leaving.

Walking at Henry's side, she allowed him to open the door for her, and then turned to face him.

He closed the door behind them, and asked, "You all right?"

"Right now I am," she told him. Taking a breath, she admitted, "But later tonight, I may not be."

"What is it?" he asked, concern shrouding the usual spark his warm brown eyes held.

Her fingers subconsciously fell to the ring that rested over her heart. She held it tight in a clenched fist as she said, "Tomorrow morning is the one year anniversary of…" But she couldn't finish the sentence. Almost one whole year had passed, and it still hurt to say it.

And Henry understood. He heard the end of the sentence even if she hadn't said it. He touched a hand to her arm, forcing her to lift her eyes to his, and said, "Let's go get that drink."

Jo smiled despite the sadness clamping around her heart. "Thank you."

* * *

One drink, became two, became five, and she felt Hanson and Henry's eyes on her every time she took a sip. Lucas, at least, had the decency to be a little more subtle, or perhaps he was simply oblivious to it all. She didn't know how much he knew, wasn't interested in finding out. Downing the last of the liquid in the glass, she closed her eyes, and savoured the burn as the alcohol slid down her esophagus. It didn't make her feel better though. The more she drank, the more hopeless it all felt. And when the last sip of her next whiskey threatened to bring tears to her eyes, she excused herself to use the ladies room and forced herself to keep it together.

_Not here._

_Later. Alone._

She splashed a little water on her face, held a paper tower against her cheeks to soak up the excess moisture, and met her red-rimmed eyed in the smeared mirror. A whole year had passed without him. Her chest ached. Whoever said time healed was a goddamn liar. With determination to get through this night, she strode back out into the bar, on less-than-steady legs, and made her way back to the table. She caught the tail-end of a quiet conversation as she approached, and threw all three of them a withering glare. "You think I don't know what you're discussing right now?" she asked, anger lacing her tone.

"Oh, boy, look at the time," Lucas said, with forced surprise. "I should get going."

Gritting her teeth, Jo turned and pushed her way to the bar. She ordered a beer and was about to reach for it when an arm landed across her shoulders and she was pulled into an impromptu, and incredibly awkward, hug. "What the Hell, Hanson," she muttered against his shoulder.

The hug ended as quick as it began and she found herself released again. "Henry's gonna stay for a bit."

"Henry's going to stay with me and make sure I don't drink myself into a coma, you mean." She grabbed her beer. "I can look after myself, you know."

"Trust me," Hanson said, his voice calm. "I know. But you need friends around you tonight."

"Yeah," she huffed out.

"And if you took a personal day tomorrow, no one would judge you for it."

"Goodnight, Hanson," she told him, but her voice sounded too dismissive, and it made her soften a little. He didn't deserve that. In a calmer tone, she added, "But thank you for forcing me here tonight."

He nodded, a sad smile playing on his lips. "Look after yourself, Jo."

She gave him a warm smile that on any other night would have reached her eyes. She ordered another drink, and made her way back to the table, both hands gripping a glass now, to find Henry sitting alone, watching her approach with concern.

"I got you your fancy drink," she told him, placing a cognac on the table in front of him, before claiming the empty chair beside him, instead of opposite. Her side brushed his and she brought the beer to her lips, focusing on the alcohol and not the reason for needing to be close to him.

He nodded at his drink but didn't move to take a sip, instead he watched her for a moment, and then asked, "Anything you want to talk about?"

She swallowed. "Nope," she said, popping the 'p'. "I do have a question for you, however."

"Oh?" he asked.

"You seem to have quite an interest in this case, and I don't buy it being because of some lecture during your college days."

He was silent for a moment, before asking, "And the question is?"

"Was your father the witness at the '79 murder? Was he the doctor who tried to save the victim's life?"

Henry blinked, but otherwise didn't falter. "Why do you ask?"

"Because a witness named _Doctor_ Henry Morgan is quite the coincidence."

She wathed him as he swirled his drink, his eyes focused on the liquid move around inside the glass. "It is."

"Henry," she said, a low warning in her voice. She could hear her voice, could hear the slight slur in her firm words, but still she focused on the case, and still she kept drinking. Anything to make her forget what tomorrow morning held.

"Fine," he conceded, meeting her eyes. "My father was in New York that year. It was the summer he met Abe. One evening he was strolling through Battery Park and, well, you know the rest."

She did. She also knew his father had passed on, so getting any more information out of him wasn't going to happen. But, maybe… "Did he ever mention anything to you about it?"

"Only what was in the police statements," Henry replied. "I'm afraid I have nothing more to tell you."

She nodded, and made the mistake of allowing silence to fall between them. Henry saw his chance and took it. "How did you and Sean meet?"

Jo blinked and looked sharply at Henry's profile. "Why?" she asked, her voice suddenly hoarse.

He turned and met her eyes. Leaning in a little, he said, "Because on an anniversary such as this we tend to focus on the misery of the day, instead of the joy had up to that moment."

"It's hard to remember the joy."

"No, it isn't. You just have to let yourself be open to it."

"I don't want to remember," she said, her voice soft. "I just want to forget."

"It won't help you heal, Jo."

"Can't we just drink, and pretend nothing awful's ever happened to either of us?"

He slung his arm across her shoulders and drew her against his side. She went willingly, the hug his answer. _No. No, we can't._ Resting her head against his shoulder, she closed her eyes in the busy bar, and all the noise ceased. It was just Henry beside her, in this bubble of despair he was sharing with her, and the warmth of him against her brought the tears to her eyes again. She sucked in a jagged breath, and stayed in control. She wouldn't cry here.

He rubbed a hand against her upper arm and held her close. "Shall we leave?" he asked, his voice low.

"Please."

Giving her shoulder one last squeeze, he pulled his arm back, and stood. He reached for her hand, and helped her up. Following him out onto the pavement, she waited in silence while he hailed a cab. Didn't speak as he held the door and ushered her in. It wasn't until he was giving the driver the address that she spoke. "You only gave him one address," she said, her voice drowsy now.

Henry only nodded, and she didn't fight it. She let herself slump against him in the back of the cab, too tired to argue. Nine months prior she never would have imagined herself having a friend like him, never would have imagined herself ever getting to a place where she would seek comfort from another man. But when he walked at her side to the door of the antique store, his arm around her waist for support, she could no longer imagine her life without him. He opened the door, waited for her to enter, and the moment the door was closed behind them she turned, and threw her arms around his neck. His hands came to rest at her waist, and he held her while she cried into his shoulder. In the back of her mind she was aware this was the first real embrace they'd ever shared, and the first time she'd cried so openly in front of him. Tomorrow she would blame it on her tipsy, exhausted state. But, for now, it felt so damn good to cry she just let it happen.

He didn't speak; he just held her through it, his hands rubbing comforting circles against her back, but making no move to stop her tears, just letting them flow.

When the tears had ceased, she allowed herself a moment to collect herself, then she pulled back, and gave him a sad smile. He dried her cheeks with his soft palms, smoothed down her hair with a gentle touch, and asked, "Tea?"

And she laughed despite it all, because only Henry would say 'tea' like it was the answer to all life's problems.

But maybe tonight – even if only for a few hours – it was.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning sunlight filled the room, casting orange hues over the sleeping woman on the sofa. Henry paused as he approached the curled up form of his partner beneath the claret blanket. It softened him, and he allowed himself a moment, in no hurry to wake her. They had stayed awake, well past midnight, sipping tea while Jo opened up a little more about her life with Sean, and he had given her a few abridged stories in return. She appreciated it, the little snippets he allowed her to hear. He wished, so often, he could give her more. But history had left him unwilling.

She had passed out on the couch, near three, and with a soft, sad smile tugging at his lips he had covered her with the blanket, and brushed stray strands of her hair away from her face. His fingertips had lingered perhaps longer than they should have on her smooth skin, as though his touch could ease her pain.

Now she lay curled up, face smashed into the pillow, parted lips letting out little puffs of air. Not quite snores, but he'd still consider teasing her about it later if the mood called for it. Quietly, he moved over to her, and placed the hangover cure on the small table beside the couch, before wandering off to find a distraction while he waited for her to wake up. He stayed within earshot, listening for a rustling, any change in sound that suggested she was awake. He almost chuckled when he finally heard it.

"Ugh," came a disgusted sound from the other room.

He poked his head in, and grinned at her. Sitting up now, blanket around her shoulders, she was staring at the glass in scorn.

She looked up and gave him a withering glare. "Not drinking the green sludge, Henry."

"But it'll help," he reminded her as he approached. "One sip."

She mumbled a fine, brought the glass to her lips, and took a small sip, before her face tightened in disgust and she put the glass down again. "Happy?" she asked once she'd managed to swallow.

He nodded, and dropped down on the couch beside her, jostling her a little in the process.

"Please," she said in a slow, measured tone, "No sudden movements." Her fingers pressed against her temples and she dipped her head.

He stayed beside her, his arm brushing hers, just sitting while she dropped her head into her hands and let out a low groan.

"How are you not hung over?" she asked, her voice strained.

"Remarkable tolerance to alcohol," he replied.

"I'd say."

Not as remarkable as it had once been. Before abstaining from the late eighties until quite recently he could have drank anyone under the table. He wasn't quite so successful these days.

He gave her a gentle nudge and when she looked up he asked, "How are you feeling?"

"A little embarrassed about last night."

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and leaned in a little closer. In a low voice, he said, "No need to be."

He felt her nod against him, but it felt half-hearted. Agreeing with him, but not really.

Hearing footsteps approach, Henry looked over to find Abe smiling over at them. When Jo looked up, he said, "Hey, Kid. How you feeling?"

"Like I was throwing back shots of cotton wool."

Abe nodded in empathy. "Breakfast is on, be ready in five."

Turning to Jo, Henry chuckled. "You're almost the same shade of green as the liquid in that glass."

"Think I'll skip breakfast if you don't mind."

"Coffee?"

"With extra caffeine."

Henry smiled, his arm still around her, her body warm and soft against his. "Don't worry about last night," he murmured.

Jo hummed in response, a non-committal noise. "You can let me go, you know. I'm not going to fall apart."

He gave a curt nod, and let his arm fall off her shoulder, but he stayed at her side, waiting.

"Go, eat," she told him. "But I'll just sit here a little longer, if you don't mind."

"Take your time," he told her. He moved to stand, when she reached for his hand and took hold of it. Her fingers wrapped around his and gave a gentle squeeze.

He looked down at her, saw the sadness in her eyes that she was trying desperately to hide. Today was going to be tough on her, but he knew she'd keep it together, wouldn't let anyone see the struggle she was battling within. And, at the end of the day, if she needed him, to just sit with her for a while, be a comforting presence on a difficult day, he'd be there until she shoved him out the front door and sent him on his way.

* * *

He arrived at the morgue a little later that morning, Lucas already aware he would be late. Jo had followed him inside, bid him goodbye, and then entered the elevator, determination in her eyes, chin held high, despite the fact her heart was utterly broken. His eyes were still fixed on the closed elevator doors, Jo probably already at her desk, when Lucas broke him out of his reverie.

"Hanson came by earlier, left you a gift."

Henry cocked his head, perplexed by Lucas' words. "Excuse me?"

"On your desk," Lucas told him. "Clearer photos of the knife that was used."

That perked him up instantly. "Thank you, Lucas," he said, before striding into his office to find the photos laying neatly on his desk. He picked up the photos, and recognized the jagged dagger instantly. A short, but serrated, silver dagger with a darker strip in the middle, a design sunk in and almost bronze in appearance.

"So?" Lucas asked, standing in the entrance. "You know it?"

The bronze-like design, although blurry, were images of bulls. No, that wasn't right. He searched his memory for what was wrong with it. Lions. They should have been lions. "The design, this blade, it's crafted after one excavated in Mycenae by Heinrich Schliemann. Three gold lions..." He trailed off, and then met Lucas' eyes. "Except these are bulls, which suggests it's Minoan." He frowned, and years of history flooded his mind. "Every nine years," he murmured, more to himself than to Lucas.

"You okay, Doc?"

He looked up, said in a clearer voice, "Every nine years a sacrifice was made to the Minotaur."

Lucas blinked. "You think this guy is sacrificing men to a fictitious creature?"

"I do."

"Weird," Lucas breathed out, a touch of awe in his voice.

"This dagger doesn't exist in antiquity. He's had it made. Very few people in the city would make a dagger like this." Heading for the door, he added, "I need to take a trip back to 1970s New York."

"Have fun," Lucas called, but Henry barely heard him, already pushing through the doors and heading for the elevator. This time he'd be taking Jo with him.

* * *

"Hey, Henry," Jo greeted him as he burst into the precinct and up to her desk. "Where's the fire?"

He handed her the photo, and in a rush of words told her his theory. She listened in silence, until he got to the part about the Minotaur, when held up a hand to silence him.

"Minotaurs aren't real, Henry."

"No, but if this person believes they are, he's going to keep doing this every nine years until we catch him."

Jo sat silent for a moment, absorbing it all. "Okay, let's say you're right. Let's say, just for a moment, that he believes he's making sacrifices to some mythical beast, then we need to find out who made that knife."

"Exactly," Henry replied, almost bouncing on his toes in anticipation of catching this guy.

"Okay so silver dagger with bronze inlay... How many people in the city would have made such a thing back then?"

Henry cringed. "Quite a few, I'm afraid. There was a bit of a knife-making revival in the seventies."

Jo sighed. "Of course there was."

"However, some of them may still be in the business."

"To Google we go," Jo announced, teasing him a little.

He flashed her a bright smile. It was good to see the spark in her eyes again.

* * *

He made sure not to talk about anything except the case as they drove around the city, producing the photo, asking questions, walking back to the car a little more deflated each time. He filled the car with noise, with a history in Minoan and Mycenaean cultures, the story of the Minotaur, and the labyrinth, and Minos, and when one silence threatened to engulf the car he went onto explain the surname Smith, and how it related to this case. It was after that story that Jo heaved a sigh.

"I know what you're doing, Henry," she told him as she waited for a light to turn green, fingers clenching the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. "And you can stop now."

"What?" he asked, all innocence and oblivion. All lies.

"Don't get me wrong," she continued, as she accelerated across the intersection towards their next stop. "I appreciate you not mentioning Sean, but how about a little silence."

"I'm not—"

"Very good at silence," she finished for him. "I know. But try. Please."

He watched her profile for a moment, the clench of her jaw, the fierce determination not to turn and meet his eyes. "I'll endeavour to—"

"A simple 'okay' will suffice."

"Okay," he agreed, his voice softer now.

"Thank you," she said, eyes still fixed on the road ahead, not even a twitch to suggest she would look at him.

He turned his head, concentrated on the road ahead, but in his peripheral he saw her glance at him.

* * *

"Last stop," Jo said on a sigh as they exited the car and met on the sidewalk.

The sun was sinking now, disappearing behind skyscrapers, the threat of nightfall stalking them. Working their way around the city had taken much longer than he had anticipated. He forgot, sometimes, how big New York had become. Some days he still thought of it as the place he had arrived in in the late eighteen hundreds, sprawling and growing, but nothing like it was today. He had to stop living in the past, but Abigail was there, he'd been happy, and it was hard not to lose himself in the first several decades of last century. It was difficult to move on from almost forty years of memories with her.

He blinked them away, and nodded. "Eighteenth time lucky," he said with determination.

"Here's hoping."

They entered the store and rang the bell on the counter, and while they waited he glanced around the display of daggers and swords decorating the walls, and felt a surge of hope.

Jo was about to ring the bell again when an elderly man exited from the back, taking slow shuffling steps. But his eyes were bright, despite his frailty. "May I help you?"

"I hope so," Jo replied. She flashed her badge. "NYPD. We're investigating a murder." Laying a photo on the counter before the man, she asked, "Is this dagger familiar?"

He reached for it with a shaking hand, and brought it close to his face. He studied it, the lines in his face deepening further – and then Henry saw it, recognition in his eyes.

"Yes, I made this."

Jo's eyes flicked to Henry's for the briefest of moments. "Do you remember when?" Jo asked.

"Not exactly, perhaps early seventies? I remember the dagger, because the man was very specific about what he needed."

"I don't suppose you have a record of this man's name?"

The man handed her the photo, a small smile playing on his thin lips. "Of course. I keep a record of every weapon I craft. One moment."

Jo turned to Henry and flashed him a grin. "Eighteenth time lucky, you think?"

"I very much do, yes."

"Me too."

The metalsmith returned with a large leather-bound book. He dropped it heavily onto the counter, and began to flick through it, a wizened finger turning the yellowing pages, until he found what he was looking for. "Ah, yes," he said, tapping a broken nail over a name. "Here it is. 1978. Arthur Minos."

Jo deflated beside him. "Alias," she exhaled on a sigh.

Although tempted to agree, he clung to hope. "Perhaps not," Henry told her.

"He was a strange one," the metalsmith told them. "Spoke of a family curse, but I can't tell you much more than that. It was a long time ago."

"Thank you," Henry told him. "You've been very helpful."

Turning to leave, he said to Jo, "If he thinks he's related to Minos of Crete, there may be no reasoning with this man."

"We've got a name, we'll see what pops." Unlocking the car, she said, "And then I'm calling it a night. Lack of sleep is starting to catch up with me."

Henry nodded. He'd been feeling the fatigue creep in, had been trying to ignore it as long as she was pushing on, unwilling to leave her on this day.

"Why not head home now?" he asked, pushing a little. "Hanson can look up the name."

But she shook her head as she eased the car into the busy street, and said nothing more the entire drive.

"Jo?"

She didn't respond - and that was the end of that argument.

* * *

Working through a report at his desk, Henry glanced up as knuckles rapped softly on the glass and the door opened.

"You're still here," Jo said, her voice weary, her eyes rimmed red.

"You heading home?"

Jo shook her head, a satisfied, but thin, smile tugging at her lips. "Got the bastard," she hissed.

Henry frowned at her words. "The name wasn't an alias?"

"Nope." A spark of determination flared in her eyes. "Still lives at the same address he did in the seventies too. A man of habit this one."

"Where?"

"Close to Battery Park. Up for a drive?"

"Jo…"

She held up a hand to silence his warning. "Or I can drop you home on my way, it's entirely up to you."

"A drive would be lovely," he said in an even tone. At least that way he'd have her back if anything went wrong. Not that it was going to. No. That wasn't an option.

* * *

Leading the way to the building the suspect lived in, Jo held out a hand, forcing Henry back. "Stay behind me, Henry," she warned him as she made her way into the apartment complex.

He ignored her words, her arm, choosing to walk at her side, ready to step in front of her if the need arose.

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, which he also chose to ignore, she hammered on the door with her fist. "NYPD," she announced.

Silence - and for a moment he almost believed no one was home. He almost believed they would be turning, walking away, and letting it be until tomorrow. But then he heard the shuffling from inside, the screech of a window being raised, and a thump.

With all her weight behind it, Jo slammed her side against the door, and the lock gave way. The door flew open, and a curtain blew in the breeze from the open window. She ran to the window, Henry at her side, and they reached it together. Glancing down they caught sight of a shadowy figure making his way down the fire escape with haste.

"Shit," she cursed under her breath, before turning on her heel and bolting for the door. Henry saw his chance and slid out the open window, onto the landing. With steady limbs he began making his own way down the stairs, a need to catch up to the man before Jo met him at the bottom. He practically slid down, skipping steps, closing the distance. And then the man stopped, stood on a landing, the dagger clutched in his hand, and waited.

"You know I usually only do this every nine years." He spoke in a measured tone, but even in the darkness Henry could see his eyes were empty.

A few steps above the man, Henry stayed where he was, aware of a need to keep his distance. "Why do you do it?"

"Old family curse," Minos replied, shifting the handle of the blade from hand to hand, his eyes firmly locked on Henry's the entire time, hands never fumbling. "Anything to keep him at bay."

Henry eased down one step. "Who's he?"

The man's lips curled up into a sadistic smile. "The minotaur, of course."

Sometimes Henry hated being right.

"You look like him, you know?"

That caught Henry's attention. "The minotaur?"

The man hummed in response.

"Who is he?"

"My father," he replied, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. His hands kept swapping the dagger back and forth, his movements growing angrier.

"What did he do to you?"

"Things no father should ever do to a son."

Henry slowed, taking the next step with caution, careful not to startle the deeply disturbed man before him. "You can't kill me," Henry told him.

The man laughed. "Why not?"

He was tempted to give him the last answer he was expecting, but instead replied, "You take a life every nine years."

"Like I said, I'll make an exception."

The footfalls echoed up to them, and he knew without looking down whose feet were pounding the pavement, desperate to get to them.

"Give me the knife," Henry told him, pleaded almost. "Your father is dead now." It was a guess. The man before him was in his fifties, but his father could very much still be alive.

"That doesn't stop him. He's in my dreams. I see him, in my bedroom, every night." The man inched closer. "But as long as the sacrifices happen he doesn't touch me anymore."

Henry's feet touched the landing, and he held out a hand. "Please."

And, for a moment, he almost believed he'd won. The man glanced at his dagger and turned it around, as though to pass it handle-first. And he reached for it, he let his guard down, and stepped forward. And then, with a speed Henry could hardly believe, the man twisted the knife back around, and plunger the dagger into his chest.

Henry looked down, in pained surprise, at the hilt slammed against his shirt, the blade no longer visible, completely engulfed by his flesh. He stumbled back, and hit the hard metal floor of the landing. And the last thing he heard before the familiar flash of death consumed him was Jo's voice screaming his name.


	5. Chapter 5

The hilt of the dagger glinted in the moonlight, and she screamed his name, pushing her legs to cover the distance and just get her there. _Not today_ , the words screamed inside her mind. _I can't do this_.

_I can't lose you too._

Fumbling for her phone as she ran, she called it in, her voice breaking as she spoke to the operator, pleaded for the ambulance to hurry.

Henry's attacker jumped from the last step to the ground, and the drop was just what she needed to catch up with him. His knees buckled as he hit the hard pavement, and he faltered from the impact. She reached him, injured and on his knees, and threw off the last of his balance with a knee of her own to his back as a flash of white light flared above them. He fell forward with a grunt.

"Hands behind your back," she ordered, gun drawn, aimed at his head. He didn't obey, just remained prone, head turned, sneering up at her. Jo's eyes darted up to the landing as she shoved her knee hard in his back and kept him down. She couldn't see Henry anymore. He was up there, dying, and she was stuck down here.

Wrenching one of his hands behind him, she slapped the cuffs on, ignoring his grunts. "Hang on, Henry," she called.

"He's dead, lady. He can't hear you now."

"Where's the weapon?"

"In your buddy's chest. Real deep too."

She clenched her teeth. "Did you put it there?"

"He asked for it."

"Did you put it there?" she repeated. "Did you stab him?"

"Yes."

"79, 88," she began, listing all the years. "Were you responsible for all those deaths?"

"I was." His lips curled. "You didn't read me my rights."

"Prove it," she hissed.

The wail of an ambulance sounded in the distance and her heart pounded in her chest. "Hurry," she murmured. She hauled the suspect to his feet and dragged him to her car. She threw him in the back seat, the doors locking once she'd slammed it on him, ensuring he wouldn't escape. It all took her less than five minutes, from reaching the suspect to hauling him to her car, five minutes not spent saving her partner's life. That was when she ran. Her feet hit the ground hard between long strides, all the way to the bottom of the fire escape. She looked up in desperation, hands grasping for the bottom rung to pull herself up, to save her friend – but he was gone.

Shining her flashlight, she scanned the landing. Then the one beneath it. The one above. No Henry. "Henry!" she called. "Can you hear me?" _Are you there?_ How could he be gone? She had seen the dagger protruding from his body. She had seen him crumpled on the metal grate. He'd been there. Yanking herself up, she climbed up the fire escape, to the landing he had lain on. Crouching, she flashed the light across the grate, and the dagger glinted back at her. She shone the light along the blade, but it showed no sign of having been imbedded in flesh. Beside it, just a little lower, Henry's beloved pocket watch. She closed her fingers around the watch, and picked it up, to find it still warm from resting in his pocket. Her eyes lingered on it a moment, before she placed it securely in her own pocket. Deep in her brain, she was making connections, times she had found his watch, in places he had been, and places he shouldn't have been, his mannerisms upon handing it back to him. It was all happening, in the back of her mind, even if she wasn't completely aware of it.

She called her partner's name as she climbed up the fire escape, all the way back up to the window he had exited – but there was no sign of Henry. No sign of blood. Nothing. Just the dagger, old dried up gum, and pigeon excrement.

"Detective?" A paramedic called up to her. "You call in a stabbing?"

Jo blinked, and began making her way back down. "My partner," she replied as she carefully took each step.

"He was injured?"

"I'm… not sure."

"Where is he?"

She reached the bottom, and met the paramedic's eyes in confusion. "I'm not sure."

"Are you okay?" he asked her, looking at her in concern now.

"Um, just give me a moment?" Pulling out her phone, she called the only person she could think of. "Abe?"

"What's wrong?" Abe asked, hearing the distress in her voice.

"Is Henry with you?"

"No, he hasn't come home yet. Why?" There was a pause. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Jo said on a sigh. "I thought I saw… Look, it's probably nothing. If he turns up have him call me?"

"What did you see?" Abe asked, his voice firmer.

"I'm not trying to worry you, but I think he may have been injured, but I can't find him." She sounded hysterical now, to her own ears at least. Her wavering voice, the speed the words were exiting her mouth, it was amazing Abe understood any of it.

"He'll turn up," Abe assured her. "He's a tough one. When he does I'll have him call you." She heard rustling in the background, the sound of a door opening, the noise of the city.

"Please do," she whispered, ending the call.

"You're in shock, Detective," the paramedic told her, at her side once more.

She allowed herself to be guided to the back of the bus, allowed herself to be fussed over, all the while her eyes kept returning to the fire escape, questioning everything.

When Hanson arrived she almost bolted out of the back of the ambulance, only staying in place after a stern look from the paramedic who'd been checking her over.

"Jo?"Hanson asked as he approached. "You okay?"

"Find Henry," she begged. "I saw… I think I saw him stabbed on the fire escape, but he's gone. Mike…"

"He's fine, Jo."

Jo blinked. "How do you know?"

"He called me, told me you needed back-up." Frustration flared in his eyes. "What were you thinking? Coming here without back-up? That's out-of-character for you, Jo."

"I came, with Henry, to question the guy. That was all."

"Henry isn't back-up. Dammit, Jo, he's an M.E."

Hearing a commotion, Jo brushed off his words and peered out the back of the ambulance, watching as Unis hauled her suspect into another car."

"They're taking him in," Hanson told her. "It'd be nice to know on what charges."

"He did it, Hanson. He murdered those people, all those stabbings through the years, he did them all. He admitted everything." Her next words came out so soft she barely heard herself. "He stabbed Henry too."

"Where's the knife?"

"On the third landing, where he dropped it." Or where it had been imbedded in Henry, more accurately.

Hanson nodded, a solemn look in his eyes. "I'll get it," he promised her. "You stay there until the medics give you the all clear."

"I'm fine," she tried to argue.

"Stay. Put."

Watching from the back of the bus, her eyes never lost sight of him as he ascended the stairs, bagged the evidence, and then continued up to the open window, peering inside. She watched him, until he'd slipped inside the apartment, scared if she looked away while he was on the stairs he'd vanish too. He returned to her, stepping out the main entrance to the building and back over to where she still sat, her phone clutched tight in her hand, attempts to contact Abe, to find Henry, unanswered.

"You sure did a number on the door," Hanson told her, his face unimpressed.

"I did what I had to." She expelled a puff of air. "Henry called you?"

"He did." He gave her a pointed look. "Lieu's gonna haul your ass into her office tomorrow."

"Don't I know it," Jo said on a sigh. But she couldn't focus on that, all she could focus on was, "When did Henry call you?"

"When you needed back-up. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Hanson, it's a simple question. When? How long ago?"

"The time it took to get here, about ten, fifteen minutes ago. Said he'd been injured and you'd need back-up."

"Injured…" She let the word trail off. "Mike, he… The knife was _in his chest_."

"He's okay, Jo."

"Then why hasn't he called me? Why can't I get through to him?"

"I don't know." Hanson sighed. "Let's get you back, and we can figure the rest out from there."

She stood with hesitation, her brain still a bit scrambled, still trying to put all the jumbled pieces together. Still hurt that Henry had called Hanson, and not even bothered to touch base with her. And she was angry at herself, for doing this tonight, for rushing in and endangering her friend. Hanson was right, he wasn't a cop. He didn't carry a gun. It really wasn't all that surprising Henry was avoiding her now, but it still stung.

* * *

Hanson drove her back to the precinct, and she checked her phone the entire way, her brain still convinced Henry was dead, her heart desperate for his call. They met up with the Unis, and Hanson dragged Minos down to booking, and she waited, staring at her phone, sure she had lost her mind.

"I need to go back," she told Hanson once he'd returned. "I need to find Henry."

"He isn't there, Jo," Hanson said, his voice gentle. "He's probably at home now. Let me take _you_ home."

"No, I need-"

"Don't argue with me."

"Fine," she said through clenched teeth. "Take me home." The moment he dropped her off she'd be hailing a cab to his home, back to the scene if she had to; she'd spend the entire night looking for his body if it came to that. He was dead, because this was the day that people close to her died.

* * *

"Not home," she murmured as they approached Hanson's car. "Take me to Henry's."

Hanson nodded, and she slid into the passenger seat. Her phone shrilled loudly in the silent car, startling her. Fumbling for it, she yanked it out of her pocket, and her entire body tensed when she read the display.

_Henry Morgan_.

She brought the phone to her ear as the scenery passed by in a blur out the window. "Henry?" she whispered.

"Jo," her partner's voice replied down the line, more hesitant than she'd ever heard him.

"You're alive," she breathed out.

She could feel Hanson's eyes on her.

"Yes," Henry replied.

"You were stabbed," she blurted out.

"Barely a graze, I assure you. A few stitches, but I'll be fine."

"A graze?" she repeated in disbelief. "Henry, I saw… it was in your chest!"

"Jo…" Hanson warned from beside her.

Ignoring Hanson, speaking into the phone instead, she said, "No one could survive that."

"Yes, I suppose from the angle you were at it appeared to be in my chest, but believe me it's just a flesh wound."

She didn't believe it. It wasn't possible. "I'm coming over," she told Henry.

"I'm quite tired, Detective," Henry replied. "Perhaps in a day or two?"

"A day or two?" She balked at the idea. "Henry, I need to see that you're okay. I need…"

"I'm fine." His voice grew softer as he added, "I just need a couple of days to recuperate. We'll talk then."

And then the call ended, and she looked at the darkened screen, dumbstruck.

"So, not going to Henry's I take it?" Hanson said.

Jo sighed, and shoved her phone into her pocket, frustrated and hurt. "I don't understand," she said, more to herself than to Hanson.

He didn't respond further; he drove her home, saw her inside, and once she was settled on her couch with a cup of warm cocoa in her hands, he left her, with a plea for her to take a personal day.

Hanson thought she was losing her mind. Hanson assumed that she was so caught up on death, on this day she saw it everywhere, she thought she'd lost Henry too.

She wasn't so convinced she hadn't.

* * *

She called him the next morning, just to hear his voice again, to make sure she hadn't dreamed it.

"Tell me what happened, Henry," she breathed into her phone.

"Good morning to you too, Jo."

"Henry," she warned.

He ignored her tone. "It was dark, things happened quickly. Don't be so quick to trust your eyes."

"I need to see you." She was almost pleading now.

"Tomorrow," he replied. "I'm on bed rest today. Doctor's orders."

"Yours, or an actual doctor?"

"I'm mildly offended."

"Well I saw my partner die last night so I don't really care if you're offended."

She was getting angry now.

"We'll talk tomorrow," Henry replied, his voice gentle now.

"In person," she demanded.

"In person," he agreed.

In a whisper, she said, "You scared the Hell out of me last night."

"I know, and I am sorry."

She softened. "I'm sorry too. If I hadn't been so determined-"

"It's fine, Jo. I'm fine."

There was a beat of silence, before she asked, "Tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow," he confirmed. "Take care today, Jo."

"You too, Henry."

* * *

She supposed the phone call made her feel a little better, but her mind kept replaying what she'd seen. Had there been a flash of light? From the landing where Henry had lay? Had that been real? Going over and over it in her mind, she couldn't deny it. As she'd reached Henry's attacker, above her, a few levels up, a bright light had momentarily lit up the fire escape above her head. And then Henry had been gone, or, at least, she hadn't been able to see him anymore. And even if he'd only been cut by the knife, he'd needed stitches, he'd lost blood, and there hadn't been even a drop of it on the metal, not on any of the stairs, nor the landings, and not on any window ledges he might have scrambled back through. Despite the dark she would have seen it. She was _trained_ to see it.

Why hadn't he waited for her? Where had he gone? None of that made sense.

_Nothing_ made sense.

She found herself at her desk, without a clue as to how she'd got there. She sat in her chair, her eyes barely focusing, her mind going a hundred miles a minute, in a myriad of directions. Reaching into the bottom drawer, with a tremor in her hand, she pulled out the file she'd started several months prior, the one with the initial background check she'd done on Henry, when she'd considered him a suspect and then let her curiosity get the better of her. The brown folder held no distinguishing marks on the outside, and every piece of paper, every photo, every clipping, was held securely in place inside. Opening the Minos file, she slipped the witness's statement from the '79 murder out, carried it with shaking hands to the photocopier, and when she returned to her desk the original went back in the Minos folder, and the copy went into Henry's. She carried the Henry File with her to the bathroom, entered an empty stall, and locked the door behind her. Closing the lid, she sat down on the toilet, opened the folder, and absorbed what she had just done. She no longer believed his story about the witness, though she didn't quite understand why not. Was she crazy? Or was it all almost making sense now?

It had all started so innocently really: a background check on this ME who seemed to have been on a subway train when it crashed yet walked away unscathed. And she'd been open with him back then, admitted she'd done a little digging, and he hadn't seemed overly bothered by it. Then she'd seen him, injured and careening off the side of a building. Despite her own injury, she knew what she'd seen, and that had gone into the file too. She had left it at that. But the strange events were adding up, bizarre words spoken by him were starting to eat away at her brain, and she resolved to dig a little deeper.

She'd wanted to ask him, so many times, about the strange events during that first case together, about the odd comments he made about the passage of time. About the scar on his chest, the one he claimed was a bullet wound, yet was unlike any bullet wound she'd ever seen. But fear he would think her insane kept the ridiculous questions suppressed. But he'd died, again. He must have died. He'd taken a knife to the heart.

No, he hadn't survived that.

* * *

Jo returned from the Ladies, the Henry File tucked under her arm, to find Hanson standing in front of her desk, arms folded across his chest, eyes unimpressed. "Go home, Jo."

"I am."

Mild surprise flashed across his features. "Excuse me?"

"I said I am," she confirmed.

"That was too easy, what gives?"

Hoping he wouldn't ask about the folder, she replied, "I just came in to grab some things. I'm working from home today."

Hanson relaxed. "Okay, good," he replied. "You gonna see Henry today?"

"Tomorrow," she told him. She needed today to herself, to lock herself in her home, in private, and dig a little deeper.

He lowered his voice, and said, "Listen, Jo, I don't know what went down exactly, but if he ditched you…"

"He didn't ditch me."

"How sure are you?"

Her eyes blazed. " _Sure_ ," she told him.

"Still, I'd like to give him a piece of—"

"Trust me," Jo interrupted. "I'll do that for both of us tomorrow." Adjusting the folder tucked beneath her arm, she nodded at him. A promise, and a goodbye.

He returned the nod, his actions a little more hesitant than her own, but he accepted her words.

She felt his eyes on her retreating form long after the elevator doors had closed.

* * *

Papers strewn across her kitchen counter, she spent the day going over everything she had collected on men named Henry Morgan. Including photos. Her brain struggled to make sense of it despite the evidence.

It made no sense whatsoever.

And yet, it kind of did.

When she finally succumbed to exhaustion around nine, she dreamed of her M.E dancing the night away with a blonde whose face had looked back at her from an old photo she'd dug up online – with a name that she almost couldn't believe. In her dreams, however, she believed it all.

* * *

It continued, almost to the point of obsession now, the following day.

When her phone chirped at six pm, she almost knocked it off the table reaching for it. She was jittery, on edge from too little sleep and with a brain full of bizarre, ridiculous thoughts. Two straight days of internet searches, one that had led to a quick trip downtown that morning; two days, and several months of memories of odd events. Connecting dot after dot, after dot, a picture had emerged, of a life much longer than it should have been.

"Good evening, Jo."

"Henry," she replied, her tone a little clipped. It terrified her, what she'd uncovered, but it also intrigued her, and despite it all, whether there was any truth to it or not, he was still Henry. He was still the man who had sat outside with her and held her while she'd fallen apart over a memory of Sean. He was still the man who made sure she was tucked in on a safe, warm couch after a late night spent drinking, and who made sure she was okay the next morning. Despite her anger, despite her fear, she cared about him, and she knew he cared in return.

"Your presence is requested for dinner tonight."

That surprised her, and she took a few seconds to gather her thoughts. "Is this your request, or Abe's?"

"Both," Henry replied without delay.

"What time?"

She knew she was letting it all come through in her voice, but she was tired of it all. The strange comments, strange events, his whole damn strange demeanour. Like he wasn't from this time. Like he'd seen more than a man three times his age. Losing her mind made her irate.

"I think the sooner the better," Henry replied.

"I agree."

"We'll be awaiting your arrival."

"On my way," she managed, before ending the call.

Was this PTSD? Some delayed effect from Sean's death causing her to make connections where there were none and believing a man existed who kept coming back from the dead?

Did she actually believe that?

One thing she did know, her head and heart were both killing her right now.

* * *

She stood outside the antiques store, Henry on the other side of the door, staring one another down through the glass. She'd stepped up, ready to knock, when he'd walked through the store and seen her. And then he'd just stopped, and she'd found herself frozen, and the two had become trapped in some motionless staring game, waiting for the other to blink.

"Well open the door and let the poor woman in," she heard Abe chastise before the older man pushed in front of Henry and opened the door for her.

"Come in, come in," he said, ushering her inside. She entered slowly, Henry still rooted in place, like a deer trapped in the headlights - like he knew just how incredibly busted he was.

Or like he knew he was going to have to institutionalise her.

Perhaps both.

Abe guided her to the couch she'd become familiar with, the man giving Henry a good elbow in the ribs as he walked by. So, wherever Henry had been injured, it wasn't his ribs, she at least knew that much.

Henry blinked out of his stupor and followed.

"You kids talk," Abe commanded them. Reaching for Jo's hand, he gave it a light squeeze, and said to her, "He and I had a chat after I dragged his butt home last night, and there's something he needs to tell you whether he likes it or not."

Jo nodded, and glanced over at Henry, and from the look on his face he'd been thoroughly chastised last night, after being stabbed - and murdered - and now appeared to be eying up the exits.

"I'll be upstairs if _either_ of you need me."

Once Abe had released her hand and left them alone, she reached out for Henry's, and tugged him down beside her. "Talk," she commanded.

He sat, without a single wince, and turned to her. He opened his mouth to begin, when his eyes landed on the folder resting on her lap.

"What's that?" he asked.

"No," she replied. "First you tell me where you disappeared to last night."

He let out a huff of air, a mirthless, short, laugh. "You wouldn't believe me."

"Try me," she challenged him.

"I can't," he said, avoiding her eyes now.

"Why not?"

"Because you'll walk out that door and never come back."

"Show me your wound, Henry."

He blinked, and pulled back a little, retreating against the arm rest. "What's in the folder, Jo?"

She opened the folder, over it, over everything, and avoided his eyes as she said, "Some interesting thing pop up when your name is Googled."

"Ah yes," Henry replied, because he had an answer for every damn thing, "Henry Morgan, Buccaneer, born 1635 in Llanrhymney, Wales."

"Done some research on your namesake, I see," Jo replied. "Any family connection?"

"No relation, I assure you."

Flipping a page in the folder, she scanned the document again, even though she'd already read it at least a hundred times today. "Seems there have been a few Henry Morgans through history," she told him.

Henry tensed beside her. "Common name."

"I'd say."

"Dare I ask why all this Googling has taken place?"

"Henry Morgan, Buccaneer—"

"Died 1688," he interrupted. "A little before my time, let me assure you."

"Mmm," Jo replied. "Then there was Henry Morgan, born 1779." She raised her eyes to meet his, and cocked an eyebrow. "Died 1814. Poor guy was only in his mid-thirties, about your age, actually."

"Too young," he agreed, but his voice held trepidation.

"And in 1815 another Henry Morgan pops up out of nowhere, in records kept by Charing Cross Asylum."

"While I appreciate the history lesson, Detective, the point of this is?"

Ignoring him, she continued, "It's amazing what you can find in libraries, and even online, these days. Everything's being documented, stored digitally. Old records are being transcribed so they're never lost."

"We live in an amazing time."

"We do indeed," she agreed. She handed him a photocopy of an old newspaper article, which he accepted with an unsteady hand. "Can you believe there was even a Henry Morgan who worked as a pathologist on the Jack the Ripper case? Isn't that interesting," she mused, like it hadn't all been circling around in her brain the entire day.

"Indeed," he said in an uneven tone.

"Speaking of Jack the Ripper, some strange murders occurred in this city in 1891, not unlike those in London a few years prior. And guess whose name appeared, scrawled in a tattered notebook on the case, in a small museum downtown."

"How on Earth did you stumble upon that?"

He cocked an eyebrow at his response. "I'm a _detective_ ," she said, emphasizing each syllable. "Here's a fun fact for you: I have sources and can access adoption records from the _forties_."

He remained silent this time, let her pull the A4 page out of the folder and place it on his lap. "Abigail and Henry Morgan." She paused, as though digesting the names. "Gosh, Henry, Abigail? Where have I heard that name before?"

He didn't reply, just waited, letting her continue on with this speech she had so carefully prepared.

"And you wouldn't believe the name of the baby boy they adopted. Or maybe you would."

"Let me guess," he said. "Abraham?"

"Quite the coincidence, huh?"

"Quite."

He was uncomfortable now, but not denying her insinuations. He was waiting, she could see it in his eyes; he was steeling himself for the questions he'd have no answers for.

"Photos exist online these days too." She eased out a black and white photo of a man and woman, dropping it on his lap too.

"Photos can be faked."

"Was this one?"

He sighed.

"You see, the thing is, I swear I once saw you take a bullet and then fall off the side of a building. Admittedly, I'd been losing blood myself that time, so I'd chalked it up to being shot and brushed it off. But you talk about past centuries like you've lived through them, you speak of places in this city a hundred years ago like you were there. You know so much. _Too_ much. I've joked about you having lived ten lives, but I just don't think it's a joke anymore, Henry. And then I saw you die, _again_. I saw a knife plunged into your chest. I apprehended your attacker, I ran back to you – and you were _gone._ "

"I told you, it was just a flesh wound."

"Yeah, you did. Oddly enough, I don't believe you."

"So what are you suggesting? That I'm Henry Morgan, the Buccaneer, born in the sixteen hundreds?"

"You think I've wanted to say those words? You think I don't know how crazy it sounds? It's insane. Hell, _I_ should be locked up in Charing Cross Asylum for just thinking it. But dammit, Henry, the weird stuff adds up. A year of incidents and interesting word choices made by you start to collect in a detective's mind, and even the insane starts to make sense."

"Well, let me assure you, I am not, nor have I ever been, a buccaneer. I was not born in the sixteen hundreds, and haven't died in Jamaica."

Jo's eyes widened a little at his choice of words. "So where have you died then?" she asked, her voice low, like she knew the question should be utterly ridiculous, but somehow it wasn't.

"I was, however, born in the seventeen hundreds, and did die in 1814. For the first time." One side of his mouth curved up in a half smile, like saying the words out loud had lifted a weight off him, yet he couldn't quite believe he'd said it himself.

"For the first time," she breathed out. She heard the next words leave her lips, still not really believing she was asking such a question, but unable to stop herself. "How many times have you died, Henry?"

"I think there's one more question you want to ask first, or ask me again."

Her brow furrowed as she considered his words, and as understanding struck her, she asked, "Did you witness a murder in 1979? Did you try to save the victim?"

"Yes," he replied, without hesitation.

"Not your father."

"No."

"Did your father die over a hundred years ago?" she whispered.

"Yes. Well over, in fact."

Repeating her earlier question, she asked again, "How many times have you died?" She blinked away the haze, and with clarity, asked in stronger voice, "And why can't you die?"

Pushing himself to his feet, he reached for her hand. "Let me show you."

Standing, with hesitance in her movements, Jo allowed him to clasp her hand in his, and let herself be led down into his laboratory. Was she actually believing this, that Henry just didn't stay dead? Was she… She glanced down at their joined hands, and her breath hitched. Was she holding the hand of a vampire? She snorted then, and he turned and looked at her in concern.

"Nothing," she murmured. "I've just officially lost my mind, that's all." The humor vanished, as mirthless as it had been in the first place, and the hurt returned as they descended the steps to his laboratory. "You could have trusted me."

His step faltered, and for a moment she thought he was about to add another death to the count and tumble down the remainder of the stairs. But her grip on his hand tightened and she kept him balanced.

"I've found not everyone handles the news so well," he began, continuing down the stairs once more. "The results in the past have been varied, from watching people I cared about walk away from the other side of asylum bars, to them exiting out the front door, and out of my life forever. Only one has truly stuck with me."

"Abe," she murmured.

Henry paused before the blackboard, and nodded. "And, the thing is, I've come to care for you." The emotion rose within him, and she could see him fighting to stay in control of his voice as he added, "If telling you meant losing you… I couldn't risk it."

She squeezed his hand, and gave him a tight smile. "I'd like to think you know me better than that by now."

"I thought I knew Abigail, but even she ultimately walked away."

"I won't," Jo promised, her voice strong. "Let me in, Henry. I know several months of friendship mightn't feel long for you, but for me, especially these past several months, well it's meant a lot. Please trust me with this."

She looked down at their joined hands, and marvelled at the connection for a moment. So much had happened since Sean's death. She'd started a new journey of discovery when she'd met Henry, had started feeling a new excitement for life that she'd lost somewhere along the way. She felt the same in him, only his felt older, which came as no surprise to her now. His pain was old, hers was new, but when his own eyes dropped to their hands, and he gave it a light squeeze, this connection they'd built started to make sense. She eased her hand from his, slipped it into her pocket, and withdrew his watch. She handed it to him, a happy, thankful smile stretching across his face as he accepted it. But her own face remained serious, her heart still felt just a little too heavy.

"Let me in, Henry," she pleaded one final time.


	6. Chapter 6

"Let me in, Henry," she pleaded with him.

His gaze dropped to the watch sitting in his palm.

She had returned it to him, and he wasn't sure he deserved that. By the time he had hauled himself out of the East River and managed to borrow a cell phone from a rather surprised couple, Abraham had been pulling the car up, his face showing his displeasure. Despite Abe's insistence he call Jo, he had opted for Hanson. Being unaware of the situation at the scene, all Henry had known was that Jo was there - alone - with a madman. Hanson would reach her faster. So he'd sent the best man for the job, the events of the evening proving it wasn't him. And then making the phone call to Jo herself had become harder the longer he'd put it off. Finally Abe had dialled the number and thrust the phone in his hand - and ordered him to talk. Her anger, her fear, the disbelief, it had all pierced his heart, and the pain had been worse than the dagger he'd taken to it earlier that evening.

His fingers closed around his watch now, and he smiled. Having it back felt like forgiveness.

"Show me your wound."

The start of forgiveness, anyway.

He tilted his head and she held his gaze, her eyes burning with determination, and still so much confusion. The wound that didn't exist, that couldn't be used as evidence against Minos.

"I'm afraid there is no wound," he admitted, placing the watch on a shelf beside him, somewhere safe for now.

The hard edge to her tone remained as she muttered, "I figured."

"Did you arrest him?"

"He confessed, to everything." Her gaze drifted down. "He confessed to stabbing you in the chest." She met his eyes again.

"I was foolish," he admitted, ducking his chin, focusing on the rug on the floor, while he collected his thoughts on the events. "I acted rash, and left you there alone."

"I should have waited," she said on a sigh. "Henry?"

The sound of his name forced his eyes up, and once he had met her softened gaze, she said, "You had a knife in your chest."

"I did, yes."

"And then you disappeared."

"Yes, it's what always occurs after such an event."

"So you… you die, and then disappear?"

"It's—"

"Henry, so help me, if you say it's complicated I'll shoot you."

He nodded, but despite her harsh words she was smiling, just enough to let him know she was joking. Her eyes fell on the blackboard, and she stepped closer, taking it all in, the words at the top, the dates below.

"These are all you," she said, her voice low as she absorbed it all. "All your deaths. Quite a few since September, I see." She turned and met his eyes, sadness clouding hers, as her words seemed to suddenly make sense to her, what she was saying, what it all meant. "In the year we've known each other, you've _died_. Your heart has stopped beating," she paused, turned back to the board, and did a quick count. "More than a dozen times."

Nodding, but remaining quiet, he allowed her a moment to work through it all in her mind.

"And then you come back. You don't stay dead."

He knew the more she said it out loud, the sooner she'd come to accept it.

"You don't stay dead," she repeated, her eyes scanning the dates again, shaking her head at some of the earlier ones. So long ago now.

"No."

"But how?" She turned to him, eyes blazing. "Explain."

"I don't have all the answers." He let out a mirthless sound, an attempted chuckle that got caught in his throat. "I don't have any, to be perfectly honest." Spreading his arms to indicate the space they stood in, he said, "But this is where I come to try and find those answers. I haven't had much success."

It wasn't clear to him if she was even listening anymore, her eyes too focused on the blackboard, the tip of a finger hovering above the white chalk, tracing a date but not quite touching it.

"How do you feel about this?"

"I…" Hesitating, Jo curled her fingers into a fist and brought it to her chest. Her hand opened just briefly enough to clutch her wedding ring. Shrugging, she met his eyes, her own a lot clearer now, and said, "Ask me tomorrow?"

The urge to hug her was strong, but he kept distance between them, and just stood there, nodding in response. It was best, he decided, that she initiate any contact now, when she was ready to do so.

"Your current career choice makes a whole lot more sense," she replied, giving him a small smile. Her fingers released the ring, and she tilted her head and then reached for his hand, and his own smile grew as their fingers laced together. When their palms connected, and their fingers were a perfect fit, resting between knuckles, he took a moment to let it all sink in.

He'd let himself have a real friend again; he'd let himself get particularly close to her too. Jo. Sweet, strong, occasionally sarcastic, Jo, who held his hand when it all just got a little too difficult, and leaned against him both figuratively and literally, despite her own attachment issues. He had let her in, as she had done for him in return. Now, to be standing before her, hands clasped tight, and have it feel so _normal_ , made him unable to imagine that lack of contact before. And he realized then how right this was, how she must see and hear it all, for their friendship to continue to develop, for the trust to keep growing.

Perhaps she would still walk out of his life one day, much as Abigail had. Or maybe, like Abe, she would stick by his side until he watched from a distance, hidden behind trees, as they lowered her body to its final resting place, and he shut himself off from the world again.

But oh, he shouldn't think that far ahead. _Live for today_. That was something Abe and Jo had taught him, something he was still trying to put into practice.

"I told you once that I was shot," he began, letting the words trail off. She nodded, and waited, a slight frown forming between her eyes as he slipped his hand out of hers and began unbuttoning his vest. In silence, she watched as he eased it off his shoulders and placed it on a chair beside him. "This is how it all began."

Her eyes held his the entire time; she was waiting, for that moment when she would accept she had permission to openly look this time. There was a vulnerability in slipping the shirt, and undershirt, off, and standing half naked before her. She gave him a small, shy smile, and then broke his gaze, dropping her eyes to his chest. She didn't say a word, just stood there, unflinching, as her eyes fixed on the gunshot wound that had started all this, so long ago now.

Her index finger hovered above the old scar, before the tip of it ghosted across the damaged skin. She traced it, her touch feather-light but curious.

Lifting her eyes back to his, she asked, "When?"

Her finger dropped from his skin, and he missed the warmth immediately. He reached for her hand and held it tight in his, needing the contact, needing to moor himself in the present as he slipped back to the past. She deserved to know everything. Starting with the scar, his original death in 1814, he revealed his life to her, everything since that fateful day aboard the ship when everything changed, right up to the day he met her. He recalled how he had dabbled in pathology, in London in the late eighteen hundreds, and soon after in New York, and admitted his obsession with death even back then. As technology had advanced he had found himself back in laboratories, looking to heal the living, with the hope he might uncover a way to rid himself of this curse. Living – well, he'd managed to do that for a while. A good long time, really. Until Abigail had left him, and he'd found himself wallowing. Wallowing, at that time, had meant digging graves and feeling pangs of jealousy that people were able to die – while he just kept on living. But he wasn't living anymore, merely existing, dragging his heels through each day and missing her with an ache so fierce he longed for death. Until a few twists of fate had led him to the OCME's office, and to the woman before him now.

Apart from a chuckle when he admitted he always returned naked, and a noise of revelation when he spoke of his resurrections in water, she remained silent throughout. Listening, absorbing, believing, but never judging.

When he concluded, she slipped her hand from his, and sank down into the nearest chair, mentally exhausted.

"Need a drink?" he asked, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

She exhaled a deep breath, and shook her head. "Thinking it's time to break that habit," she admitted, her body language a little sheepish. But then her lips quirked up, and she said, "But I do suddenly find myself craving a cup of tea."

A sudden burst of joy filled him. "Coming right up." He turned to leave, but then paused, and turned back, trepidation filling him once more. "You'll stay, you won't—"

Pushing herself to her feet, Jo made her way over to him. With a shy smile she reached for him, and then embraced him fiercely, her hands coming to rest on his bare back, his chest pressed tight against her shirt. "I won't leave, Henry," she promised, her voice soft in his ear.

"Good," he murmured. Despite her tone, he could feel the tension in her body. "You're angry," he noted.

In a sad, solemn voice, she said, "You've lost so many people you loved, it's too much for one heart to live with. I understand why you had to keep this from me. I do. And I'm relieved I'm not insane."

He pulled back, but kept his hands resting around her lower back, not letting her step away. "But?"

A hand curled into a fist, and then connected with his chest. Twice the side of her balled up hand hit him square in the chest, although the second thump, he noted, was weaker. "Of all the days you had to die, Henry," she said, a waver in her voice. "On the anniversary of Sean's death? Really?" She sounded incredulous, and hurt, and he couldn't blame her for any of it.

Leaning in, her hand still resting on his chest but no longer hitting him, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and let his lips rest there for a moment, until her anger had dissipated and her breathing had calmed. Only then did he ease back, and murmur, "I truly am sorry."

Jo nodded mutely, eyes growing watery, emotion getting the better of them both now. Before she could cry, she slid out of his arms, and pointed up the stairs. "Tea, immortal man," she snarked, and although her voice still wavered a little there was a spark in her eyes again. "Get me tea. And then we'll talk about how this doesn't mean you get to throw yourself in front of moving cars, or take bullets for me."

"But—"

"Argue with me on this and there'll be a demonstration of proof of this gift you've acquired right here in this basement."

"Fine," he conceded, pulling his shirt back on. Throwing her a grateful smile as he buttoned it up, he turned and headed off to brew the tea. Of course he would still put himself between her and danger, whether she liked it or not. And she knew it too.

* * *

When he returned with the tea, he discovered she had relocated, and it took him an extra minute to find her, back on the couch again, legs curled up under her.

"I like this couch," she told him. Accepting the tea, she shuffled a little so he could sit beside her. Once he had settled, she asked, "How are you real, Henry Morgan?"

He shrugged, and shook his head. If only he knew the answer to that, well it might just answer everything.

"You must be exhausted," she said, a teasing edge to her tone. "You've talked more about yourself tonight then I thought was possible."

"There's more, if you interested?"

Her body relaxed into his a little more, and she turned and smiled at him over the rim of the tea cup. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

Abe found them there, an hour later, still talking, both smiling. "Figured you'd both worked up an appetite by now." He handed them both a plate of food and a glass of wine, and asked, "Everything okay?"

Jo looked up at Abe with joy in her eyes. "You're Henry's son," she breathed out.

Abe grinned. "It takes a while but eventually your brain accepts it."

Food on her lap, staring up at Abe in what Henry could only call awe, she asked, "How old were you when you found out?"

Abe pulled an ottoman up beside them, settled on it, and replied, "I was sixteen when I realized my father hadn't aged a day my entire life."

Henry grinned as he listened to his son telling his best friend stories he'd been hoping to share with her for so long. By the time the last bite of food had been swallowed, and their glasses drained, he saw it in Jo, the change. The complete acceptance; complete forgiveness. Abe left them alone, and the stories continued. They stayed there, on the couch, long into the night, Jo asking questions, Henry finally able to answer them all. When her eyelids began drooping, he slid his arm behind her shoulders, and she sank her side against his. Her head rested against his chest, and he dropped his cheek to the crown of her head. He could spend eternity swearing it was platonic, that she was just a friend, but he couldn't deny their relationship had slowly been shifting lately, couldn't deny the love he felt for her, even if he wasn't quite ready to act on it. He felt her nudge him gently, and he smiled.

"Don't fall asleep yet," she said, her voice fading. "It's almost dawn."

"What does that mean?" he asked. "For you?" _For us?_

"It means a new day is about to start," she murmured, sleep coaxing her away, but fighting to stay awake, just a little longer. "And I can't wait to see what it brings."

* * *

**End.**


End file.
